


Sharp Dressed Man

by annundriel



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Suit Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 05:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annundriel/pseuds/annundriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames likes to watch Arthur dress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharp Dressed Man

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/756.html?thread=225012#t225012) for the prompt: _Eames never knew watching a man dress could be so...alluring. He's mesmerized by the three-piece suits and braces and cufflinks that Arthur likes to wear._  
> 

Eames lounges against the pillows, sheet riding low on his hips, and watches Arthur dress, watches him put himself back together, button himself back up. He watches Arthur cover skin, pink from his recent shower, with more articles of clothing than a Victorian old maid and wants nothing more than to lock his hand around Arthur’s wrist and yank, pull him back down to sheets rumpled by sex and sleep, mess him up again.

Arthur tucks himself away carefully, deliberately, one piece of clothing at a time. He starts with briefs that won’t ruin the line of his trousers, which fit him like a glove, tight and snug. They leave little to the imagination, and Eames has a _very good_ imagination.

Bending to pull them on, Arthur gives Eames the perfect view, and Eames appreciates it, tilting his head to better contemplate the sweet curve of his ass before Arthur obscures it and turns.

That’s not a bad view either, Arthur’s dick cupped in fabric Eames knows is soft; he’s had his hands on it. He knows what that dick feels like beneath those briefs too. Soft, hard, somewhere in between; Eames has slipped his hand into Arthur’s trousers and catalogued all of the ways Arthur feels during different stages of arousal.

From here, he can also see a bruise on Arthur’s skin, low on his hip. It’s half-covered by his waistband, but it’s there, and Eames knows his mouth fits perfectly over it.

His fingers itch to touch, his hand slipping down to cup his own cock through the soft sheet, a poor substitute for what he really wants to touch, but one that will have to suffice—

A snap of elastic catches his attention and Eames looks up to find Arthur watching him, a subtle smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

Hand leaving his dick, Eames stretches against the bed, his sheet sliding a little lower. He smirks in response when Arthur’s eyes drop to follow the movement, when Arthur’s jaw tightens ever so slightly, a sure sign he’s noticed the state Eames is in.

Snorting, Arthur turns away. “Insatiable.”

“You know me so well, darling,” Eames says, making himself comfortable. He’s seen this happen often enough to know that this is just the beginning of the show; there’s plenty to see yet.

Arthur crosses the room to his closet, hands sliding over one suit to the next, rejecting one after the other before pausing. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and the things it does to his ass make Eames’ blood simmer.

Eames reaches for his dick again, half-hard, giving it a squeeze as Arthur comes to a decision, pulling a suit out—dark, pinstriped—and hanging it on the back of the closet door.

Everything in Arthur’s closet, in his apartment, is neat and organized and in its place. He’s the most anal person Eames has ever known.

Which is not an entirely bad thing, Eames thinks, Arthur’s peculiarities lending themselves nicely to calculated attacks on Eames’ senses.

Sliding his fingers across one of his nipples, Eames pinches it. If he closes his eyes he can almost, _almost_ , still feel Arthur’s teeth there, feel the path they took from one side of his chest to the other.

Eames follows that path now with his fingers as he watches Arthur choose a shirt—cool white, a clean canvas for Arthur to paint over—before pulling the suit down, carrying it and the shirt over and laying them across the foot of the bed before moving to his dresser for a pair of socks. He tosses them over, and then it’s back to his closet for a tie, braces.

Coming back to the bed, Arthur lays them down and sighs, shoots Eames a pointed look when he stretches his legs, taking up as much space as he can, getting right in Arthur’s way.

“Problem?” Eames asks. He doesn’t even try to come off as any type of innocent, his other hand sneaking beneath the sheets. Arthur’s eyes track the movement, and Eames chuckles.

Arthur leans forward, leans over Eames, one hand skimming up his thigh to settle over the hand Eames has wrapped around his cock. He squeezes, forces Eames’ hand tighter, and Eames groans, tries not to but ultimately can’t help it.

Arthur’s fingers slip between his, press against him through the sheet, hot and firm. Eames shifts his hips, presses back, as Arthur leans in farther, mouth close, closer. “You’re in my way,” he says, lips almost close enough to brush.

Yes, of course he is. Eames pulls his hand away, tugs it out from beneath Arthur’s, giving him access.

Hand disappearing, Arthur slaps his knee. Hard.

“What the hell, Arthur?” Eames asks, pulling his leg away.

Arthur straightens. “Move your feet,” he says. The corner of his mouth quirks upward. “You’re in my way.”

Eames rolls his eyes and swears, but pulls his legs up, knees bent and thighs falling open, pulling the sheet farther down, exposing his cock.

Arthur ignores him and sits, reaches for his socks.

There’s nothing alluring about socks. They’re socks.

But when Arthur bends to pull them on, Eames can’t quite look away from the curve of his shoulders, the flex of muscle beneath his skin, the way Arthur’s fingers work against the fabric to pull them over his toes, around his heel, up his ankle and calf.

Those same fingers have pushed their way inside Eames, worked him open. They’re capable, more than competent, steady and sure.

Eames wraps his hand around his cock and wishes the fingers pressed against the shaft were Arthur’s and not his own.

Arthur straightens, and Eames knows he’s watching out of the corner of his eye, knows he isn’t as unaffected as he likes to pretend when he stands and the bulge beneath his briefs is definitely larger than it was before.

Unfortunately, Arthur is good compartmentalizing. A master of getting down to business.

Reaching for the suit, Arthur pulls the trousers free. Picking up the braces, he tosses them to Eames. “Here,” he says, “make yourself useful.”

Eames looks at them where they’ve fallen against the sheets. “Are you suddenly under the impression that I do what you ask?”

Patient, expectant expression on his face, Arthur holds the trousers out.

Eames stares at him, at the trousers in his hand, and then back at Arthur. He sighs, releases his cock, and sits up, takes the trousers from him, picks up the braces.

There’s something smug around Arthur’s eyes as he pulls his shirt on, straightening it over his shoulders, but Eames chooses to ignore it. Instead, he focuses his attention on attaching the braces, buttoning them to the waist of Arthur’s trousers.

By the end of the day he’ll be slipping his hand beneath that same waistband, fingers caught between it and the shirt Arthur’s currently buttoning. Arthur will be the one pushing into his hand then.

He tosses the trousers back to Arthur, and Arthur catches them, smiling enough that Eames catches the beginning of a dimple. It always makes him feel strangely charmed, turning Arthur into someone other than the efficient, effective right-hand man; turning him into someone who flirts, who knows exactly what buttons to push. Someone who knows how to play when Eames pulls his pigtails and pushes him down.

Bending, Arthur slides one foot in, then the next, pulling the trousers up over his knees and thighs, his hips.

“A pity, really,” Eames says, watching Arthur’s hands as they tuck his shirt in, “covering all that up.”

Arthur glances up at him through his eyelashes. “I have work to do.”

“Mmm,” Eames hums. He moves toward the end of the bed, stopping when he’s right in front of Arthur.

Arthur pauses, watching him suspiciously.

Eames leans forward, feels his breath reflected back to him against Arthur’s stomach, and Arthur tenses, Eames reaching around him to grab hold of the braces, pulling them up and over Arthur’s shoulders. He straightens them down Arthur’s front, slips them beneath his waistband to button them in place.

“All work and no play,” Eames says, bending to press his mouth against Arthur’s cock, “make Arthur a very dull boy.”

His hands settle on Arthur’s hips, Arthur’s finding his shoulders, and for a moment, Eames thinks, _yes_ , he’ll get to unwrap Arthur here and now after all.

But then Arthur’s groaning and pushing him away, stepping out of his reach.

His color is heightened, though, and Eames counts that as something of a victory.

Eames sighs and leans back on his elbows, frowns when Arthur straightens his waistband, buttons and zips himself up. Eames is ready with his tie when Arthur reaches for it.

_Later_ , Eames thinks. Later he will use that tie in much more interesting ways.

Stepping over to the mirror above his dresser, Arthur pops his collar and slips the tie around his neck. Eames grabs the waistcoat and follows him, watches as Arthur’s hands make quick work tying it, knot forming beneath his fingers with practiced ease.

Arthur glances at him over his shoulder, their eyes meeting in the mirror, and reaches back for the next piece.

Eames shakes his head. It’s a fact that Arthur looks good in a suit, a truth Eames won’t deny. He just knows that Arthur looks even better out of one. However, if Arthur’s hell bent on leaving, on being a productive member of the team this early in the morning—which he appears to be—Eames wants to have his hand in it.

He wants his hand several places, actually, but he’ll take what he can get.

Eames holds the waistcoat open for Arthur, rolls his eyes when Arthur looks at him like he’s grown another head. “Don’t get used to it.”

There’s a crease between Arthur’s brows, but he steps back, slips his arms through the holes in the waistcoat, and Eames slides it up over his shoulders, settling it there before running his hands down Arthur’s arms, reaching past him to pick a pair of cufflinks off the top of the dresser. He waits as Arthur buttons the waistcoat, straightening his tie beneath it, and then holds out his hand, cufflinks waiting in his palm.

Arthur looks down at them, seems frozen for a moment, and Eames wonders what it is, wonders what might be going on behind that cool cover

“They won’t bite,” he says, and Arthur blinks, snapping out of it, and reaches for them, fingertips a tease against Eames’ palm.

Eames steps back, giving Arthur some space, moving back to the bed and the rumpled sheets that smell like both of them.

Settling back against the pillows, Eames looks up to find Arthur turned toward him, watching him as he straightens his cuffs. His eyes are dark and hooded and for as predictable as Arthur is, Eames has no idea what he’s thinking.

And then Arthur turns away, rummages in his top drawer, and Eames thinks he gets it.

It’s flattering, really, that Arthur thinks he needs his totem. Flattering, and a little sad.

“Arthur,” Eames says, and Arthur stops, pauses a moment with his hand curled tight around what must be his loaded die before looking over his shoulder. “If this was a dream, do you _really_ think this is all we’d be doing?”

Arthur snorts and shakes his head, roles his die over the top of the dresser anyway. He must be satisfied with the proof, though, because he drops it back into the drawer. “I don’t know,” he says, turning to lean against the dresser. He’s smirking. “Despite your failed attempts at distraction”—he looks pointedly at Eames’ cock—“you seem pretty happy about the outcome.”

Grinning, Eames’ bends his knee, spreads his legs wide, lets Arthur see everything he’s going to miss if he insists on going.

“What can I say?” Eames asks, lazily stroking his cock. “Your tailor knows what he’s doing.”

Arthur crosses his arms and leans back against his dresser, clearly intending to watch. “Oh?”

“Oh.” Eames strokes himself a little harder, twists his wrist, and shifts his hips. “As if you aren’t completely aware of what kind of figure you cut.”

Amusement crosses Arthur’s face, settles around his lips. He uncrosses his arms and slips his hands into his pockets, drawing Eames’ attention to his cock.

Christ, it’s a shame he had to get dressed.

“Would you like to file a complaint?” Arthur asks. His tone is teasing, the same tone he used the night before, the same one he uses when they’re working together and he thinks Eames needs taking down a notch.

“What I’d like is to send a bloody thank you.”

Arthur grins, and Eames groans, eyes slipping shut as he sweeps his thumb over the head of his cock. He licks his lips and concentrates, doesn’t notice Arthur moving until Arthur is right there, swinging his leg carefully over Eames’ thighs, settling against his knees.

“I guess I can give you a hand,” Arthur says, and then he does, wrapping his hand over Eames’ fist, cock sliding between their fingers as Arthur joins him, helps work him toward that edge, toward that feeling of falling that’s almost like a kick but isn’t quite; it’s better and more and grounded in the reality of their hands and bodies together.

Arthur’s cufflinks glint as his hand moves over Eames, and Eames can’t look away, is mesmerized by their shine, by the clean line of Arthur’s cuffs, the crisp fabric of his shirt, the smooth line of his waist and chest beneath that waistcoat, the dark silk of his tie. He’s pulled in by the flush on Arthur’s skin, the brightness in his eyes. He’s pulled in, pulled down, pulled under, until he’s reaching for Arthur, clutching at his arm, coming across his own bare chest, eyes squeezed shut.

Arthur works him through it, hands competent and more than capable even here. Works him through it, and then slides away, Eames opening his eyes in time to see Arthur bring his hand up to his mouth. Even the tip of his tongue is neat as he licks Eames’ come off his fingers.

“You’re going to be the death of me, darling,” Eames says, dropping his head against the pillows.

Arthur leans over him, pins him there against the sheets with a look. “Oh,” he says, “but what a way to go.”


End file.
